


Into the Green

by flavouredice



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Red & Green & Blue & Yellow | Pokemon Red Green Blue Yellow Versions
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-11
Updated: 2010-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flavouredice/pseuds/flavouredice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a wonder that he never actually leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Green

He should probably be packing his things now. Can't stay any more or he won't want to go. And he can't have that.

Can't have all the memories flooding the gates. The heated touches, the sneaking looks, the flings in the back seats of cars (the whispers of hormonal teenagers floating in the air like a forgotten-ever present thought)…

A whimper hits the air like the weak flails of an infant, the boy's hands hitting and smacking his face, ripping at the midnight locks on his head, cursing his mind and that bloody, damned man he had to fall in lo-

Strays of red and denim blue are strewn upon the floor in sad numbers, an ebony slice of fabric here and there adding dimension to the careful chaos. There are only six bubbles of scarlet mixed ivory thrown into the pile, each containing a different memory, a different time, different personalities.

Now though, they shake with a restless fever, the creatures inside yenning and yearning to be freed from their preferred prisons (if he stops and thinks, he gets lost in the wishes of being trapped inside of those balls, being locked away from all the realities of life).

It's probably two by now. He's been sitting here, on this bed veiled in ceil and cornflower and cerulean, (since about lunch, he thinks with a smile, finding this fact funny in that  _lunch_ would be a rather loose term for what he had partaken in on the dining room table - the very one he had spent twenty minutes cleaning afterwards); staring at the lonely lump of fabrics he calls his but never actually wears – actually, he's pretty sure they're not even his as he spies a sweater of molten jades and emeralds.

A sigh escapes him by his own blue will, the action not being out of trepidation, discomfiture, insatiability.  _Would…would anyone really care?_  His eyes rove about the room, spying a whopping two pictures with his maladroit frame, his thoughts flitting disgust at the sight. Of course he would be the most awkward, out of place, misshapen, warped one.

Outside of the apartment, past the window, the people bustling down the street could be seen at that very moment popping with surprise as the shattering of glass echoed throughout the paths, mothers covering their children's' ears as curses follow in short succession. They didn't see the sanguine (a color similar to his tinted eyes - things or daggers, things of feathers) that painted the floors and the glittering shards, nor the hands shaking as they wrapped around his body (trying to hold himself together – look at the puzzle, as it rains to the ground and destroys the work of all the hands, of all the lives - from the accursed things in his heart).

It's five when the boy actually gathers his possessions, (strays from his thoughts and closes the wounds just enough to begin higher cognitive functions) and puts everything into a petite bag, locking the keys to the insufficient thing in his chest cavity. He clicks the pokéballs around his waist and walks out the door with not a single glace back, not a single thought of how he's redecorated the place with scarlet.

But as he's walking through Viridian, he'll stop by a gym of celadon and chartreuse and clover. He'll stop to look through the window, stuck at the entrance with an indescribable face for nearly an hour more (waiting for something to tell him to stay).

And a certain gym leader will step out – the one with jaded eyes and hair of sweet chocolate – and he'll ask the boy to diner and he, the one with cochineal eyes and ebony strands on his head, will remember why he never actually leaves; as he looks into the pleasure, satisfaction (love) that is the other's eyes.

He can never, ever leave if he can just get a glimpse, a glistering peak, into the green.


End file.
